


untitled

by oceandeath



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Original Work
Genre: it's literally minecraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24992110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceandeath/pseuds/oceandeath
Summary: another world, another journal.
Kudos: 9





	untitled

another world, another journal. he goes through them like snakeskin. there’s nothing to keep track of how many he’s gone through now, since they get left behind with every transfer. he dreams of worlds that have passed him by and wonders where he came from. but he knows the rules. new world, new journal, to keep his thoughts straightened out until it happens again.

the thing that happens is by necessity impossible to judge in its swiftness or longevity, because he loses his journal when he goes and the journal is all he has to cement him in whatever reality he wakes up in. this makes waking up every day a hassle, because either he’s rapidly searching for the journal because he hasn’t changed or he’s not searching for the journal because it’s a new world and he hasn’t remembered the journal rule yet. which makes the journal rule somewhat pointless, but he thinks he would lose his mind completely without some record of his pitiful existence.

he dreams of worlds gone by, and really, really, really wishes he didn’t. he hates the dreams, especially the good ones. there’s ones where he’s waking up every day beside someone else, someone who kisses his forehead and holds his hands and then he wakes up and the bed is empty because those are just dreams, and not things that could’ve happened. he has to separate the dreams from memories, and discard the ones that feel too good to be true. that one is too good to be true. 

sometimes he dreams that he is older, that his hair has gone grey at his temples and his eyesight has gone bad. sometimes the dreams don’t end when they’re supposed to, when he wakes up, and he looks in the mirror to find a stranger’s body. he doesn’t even know his name anymore, so how can it be a stranger’s body, he thinks. it’s his body, but he is a stranger to himself.

but he keeps journaling. it is the only thing keeping the days and nights from blurring together into a haze of half felt dreams and memories. he takes care of his little farm, digs deeper into the mountain, takes care of the animals. there is something in him that knows this life, but it feels lonely. he has never met anyone beside himself except in dreams. part of him thinks that he would not be dreaming about the impossible, but the other part of him is louder and that one says he’s always been alone. there’s something right about being alone as much as there is something wrong about it. it’s easier to convince himself that this is the way things have to be and not think about it. there’s something right about not thinking about it.

the animals don’t make themselves easy to care for. not that he has anything to compare it against, but he thinks that it used to be easier. that feels like memory to him. the llamas spit at him when he’s too slow to feed them the morning after nightmares and the chickens are always pecking at his hands for more treats. the sheep at least are easy, and the cows are docile enough. the parrots are the worst. they’re new, he thinks, to this world. he’s never met parrots before. but he has five of them now, and the novelty of parrots has worn off and they spend their days cursing at him because all he does is curse back at them. they are incredibly poorly mannered parrots.

the dogs are his favourite of his animals. they get all the best scraps and he makes no secret of it. there’s something right about dogs. there’s nothing that strikes him as wrong about the other animals, just that there’s something missing about them. something important. but the dogs have none of that. they’re just good.

sometimes he talks to the parrots, because he is lonely even if he has never met another person before, even if meeting another person is impossible and dreaming of it is pointless. he tells them about his day as he writes in his journal and pretends he is having a conversation. he has never had a conversation before. he worries about the next time he will wake up and find a new world. he tells the parrot that it must care for the animals when he is gone.

“FUCK,” says the parrot.

“good parrot,” he replies. “i believe in you.”


End file.
